


Anarchist

by InkedQuill (JunellaNyx)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Belligerent Herald, Drabble, Gen, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:03:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JunellaNyx/pseuds/InkedQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Perhaps you should speak with the prisoner, Commander,' Leliana said quietly. 'Seeker Pentaghast is...a little overwrought at present.'<br/>They both cast covert glances at the agitated woman pacing the length of the chamber, and he nods, resigned.  </p><p>--<br/>A reimagined opening sequence for DA:I, where the sole survivor from the Temple of Sacred Ashes is a embittered Circle mage who has lost faith in the Chantry. Cullen, the new military advisor, is charged to persuade her to help close the Breach.</p><p>Obviously, nothing can go wrong with this plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anarchist

**Author's Note:**

> Well so this popped into my head and demanded to be written. So I hope you enjoy.
> 
> To sum up: The sole survivor from the Temple wakes up, and instead of a questioning which is more accusations than fact-finding, the advisors actually have a discussion beforehand and send someone to talk the prisoner into helping with the Breach.
> 
> I always found it strange that they would let Cassandra, who is obviously emotionally compromised, to interrogate a disoriented prisoner. I mean, Left and Right Hand aside, antagonising a prisoner whose hand you need to fix the sky is generally not a good idea?

'Perhaps you should speak with the prisoner, Commander,' Leliana said quietly. 'Seeker Pentaghast is...a little overwrought at present.' They both cast covert glances at the agitated woman pacing the length of the chamber, and he nods, resigned. 

\---  


The prisoner watches him, her face cast in shadow. 'A Templar? Am I to be made Tranquil now?' 

'I am Cullen,' he says instead, unsettled by her immediate assessment. He no longer wore the insignia, but it seems she is all too familiar with it. 'You are the only survivor of the explosion at the Conclave. 

She tilts her head, and says nothing. When the silence threatens to turn awkward, he clears his throat. 'You are held under suspicion of colluding with unknown parties and orchestrating the explosion.'

Her chin comes up, a snarl curling her mouth. 'Typical,' she hisses. 'Blame the mage for everything, why don't you. Bring in the executioner then. I'm sure his blade itches for my blood.' 

He holds up a hand. 'No one is sentencing anyone to anything, for now. We have bigger problems to deal with. The explosion has caused significant damage to the Veil. Tears are forming all over Thedas, with demons pouring out of them from the Fade. It's better if I show you.' He gestures for a guard to undo the heavy cuffs and bind her hands with rope instead. 

When he leads her out of the dungeons, she flinches and squints from the sudden brightness, and he curses himself for thoughtlessness. 'My apologies. I should have thought—' 

She shakes off the hand he places on her elbow to steady her. 'Spare me the pretty words. You need me for something. What is it?' 

He points to the Breach. 'We call it the Breach. It is unstable, and growing by the day. We have been advised that the mark on your hand—' he gestures to the glowing gash across her palm '— may be used to close it.' 

She shrugs. 'So I am only alive because you have no idea what will happen if you cut off my hand?' 

He feels slightly ill at the thought, which hasn't crossed his mind until she speaks of it so nonchalantly. 'Well,' he says. 'We are hoping you could help—' 

She laughs, a high thin sound that raises the hair on the back of his neck. ‘Help? A templar asking a mage to help. Oh Maker's balls, that’s the funniest jest I’ve heard all year.’

‘I am not—'

Her laughter stops abruptly at his too-loud rebuttal. ‘Oh?’ 

‘Yes. I have mentioned I am no longer of the Templar Order.’ 

She tilts her head and regards him for a moment through hard eyes. ‘Did you think that absolves you of all the atrocities you have been responsible for, Knight-Captain Rutherford of Kirkwall?’ At his start, she snickers. ‘Oh yes. We all know of you in my Circle. Our Knight-Commander idolised you, praised you to the high heavens as he flogged us for the smallest infractions. Many of my friends were made Tranquil because he so looked up to your methods.’ She spits at his feet. ‘I will have no part of this. Sentence me to death if you will.’ 

Her words are barbs that find purchase all too well in the tender parts of him, worming out the questions he asks an impassive statue during his prayers. Still, he was here for a reason, and he would be damned if he returns to the council chamber empty-handed. He needs to prove (to himself, as much as anything else) that he can do this. Though what this is, he is not entirely sure himself.

‘Be reasonable,’ he says, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. ‘Your brethren are roaming the countryside, defenceless. They will perish too if Thedas is overtaken by the demons pouring out of the Breach. Perhaps we can call a truce?’ 

She lowers her head and rocks on her heels a few times, mumbling to herself. He lets her, stilling the impatience in his chest. He knows, most of all, how it felt like to be caught in a false dilemma. He will allow her this, at least. 

‘My unconditional freedom,’ she says finally. ‘And whatever equipment I require to survive, in exchange for my aid in this matter, and this alone. I will not be gainsaid into staying any longer or doing any more favours. I owe you people nothing.’ 

‘I cannot—' 

‘Then there will be no deal,’ she snaps. ‘Life or death, it matters little to me. Go to your betters and seek their lofty verdicts then. You are no more than a Chantry lapdog, Templar or no.’ She turns away and marches back into the gloom of the dungeon. The door slams loudly behind her, no doubt aided by her magic. 

He clenches his fists and turns to leave.

Cassandra and Leliana frown at her terms, but agree readily enough. He leaves them to deal with her. He must rush off to coordinate the defenses, and he really has no wish to deal with her (not unjustified) vitriol and glaring eyes. 

The next time he sees her, her wrists are unbound and she wields a staff with vicious glee. Her magic resembles a mad bramble, flaring in all directions. It sets his teeth on edge. Catching his eye on her, she bares her teeth at him. He looks away, and confers with Cassandra instead. 

Of course Leliana sees his discomfort. ‘Even a Mabari, kicked all its life, will learn to show only its fangs to the world.’ 

He doesn’t ask ‘why me?’. Instead, he loops the arm of an injured soldier over his neck and helps the poor soul hobble back to safety. Around them, the shrieks and cackles of demons fill the air, and he struggles against old memories that threaten to rise. 

He wins, for now, but he knows they will be there waiting when he closes his eyes at night. 

_If_ they survive till night, that is. 

\---  


Somehow they manage it. The Breach is stopped, and the mage girl lies unconscious in a hut, tended by a cranky alchemist who mutters about Templar support, and a rotation of guards to keep the villagers out, although their intent has shifted from assassination to worship. The whiplash of opinion amuses him privately, but he does not fault them for it. How awe-inspiring it must be to see the feat she has performed, and be inclined to assign her divine importance.

For his part, he tries to remain neutral. For one, she is too reckless and impulsive to be chosen by the Maker. Or the Maker could be testing him. 

He feels his mouth pull into a scowl at that thought. Just as well then, he decides, that she will be gone when she is well enough to walk. 

\---  


As his luck would have it, it is not to be. He watches Cassandra and Leliana debate over a huge dusty tome, and feels vaguely nauseous at the direction their argument is taking. The Inquisition’s formation had been planned from the very beginning of the Conclave, but their plans are changing in a way he is not entirely comfortable with. 

‘Have we all forgotten that the girl hates the Chantry?’ he interjects when they pause for breath.

Leliana turns to him. He sees the secret smile tucked in the corner of her mouth and sighs. ‘Not if we approach her the right way, Commander.’ 

He spreads his hands. The woman keeps secrets about her secrets, and he will not presume to guess at the workings of her mind. ‘I look forward to seeing you work then, Sister,’ he says.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is just nice the way it is. It's written in the present tense, which was an interesting challenge because I'm so used to writing in the past tense. 
> 
> Let me know if you spot a stray '-ed' which snuck in where I wasn't looking, and any thoughts you have.


End file.
